


Clock Strikes Midnight

by abbeyangel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3102221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbeyangel/pseuds/abbeyangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And that realization left you empty once again. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Just a small piece about you and Dean before he goes to hell. Just a sad drabble that I felt like writing up a while back, and thought I'd repost onto here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clock Strikes Midnight

  You’ve been waiting for hours. He said that he needed to talk, something he never said unless it was important. It left a sinking feeling to sit along your slips, dragging down your body and causing a slight numbness at the tips of your toes.

     Finally — just as you decided to give up and call — the door latches. It swings open, the Hunter’s heavy steps echoing around your apartment as he makes his way inside. A smile teases his lips, an all too familiar sadness edging it as his eyes meet yours. Worry dawns his face when he catches the glint of anger resting in your wide eyes, standing a measly two feet from the man who’d called ten p.m. 

     You ask what’s wrong, questioning why he was late with an air of passive aggressive anger to your tone before he stops you — placing a hand on your face to stop you cold in the middle of your rant. Your face drops to a surprised look, his stays in a loving gaze as his emerald eyes flicker between yours. He can’t focus on just one. Something was wrong, but he was holding you back. Keeping you distracted so you don’t ask again.

     He holds you to his chest, the steady beat of his warm heart pulsing in your ear as you melt into his arms. Clutching onto you like a child does a worn teddy bear, before lifting you into the air and twirling you around as if you were a toy — a prize that he’d spent years to work for and finally got. 

It’s fun — but makes you feel a little sick.

     Finally, the blond rests your feet back on the cold floor as he chuckles, noticing the green tinge to your face before his smile melts away into a look of pure longing. You watch as the threat of tears sting his eyes and he works to hide them, throwing his head in the other direction only for you to catch it in your palm. Your soft touch pulls them out, dragging down his face in streaks that lined his face before he turns back. The only sound is the small drip of fresh tears hitting the hardwood beneath you both, not a word being said.

     He can tell that you’re worried, that you want to ask him what’s happened and try to comfort your broken solider. But he simply shakes his head. Assuring to once, twice over that everything’s fine. That everything’s okay, and that you’ll be okay. Finally after several tries, you believe him. But the feeling still rests in your bones even as he leans in to kiss you.

     His lips are warm, passionate as he claims you in a possessive press of heated skin to heated skin. He’s holding you to him by the arms, pushing you together so he can memorize your taste. You don’t mind — the kiss felt amazing. It warms you from head to toe, filling you with his taste and the comfort that comes whenever your lips meet. A different sense about it catches your attention, the tears are streaking down his face faster as the kiss presses on. 

Something was wrong.

     Dean had always been a passionate lover, every kiss was a treasure and he treat them that way. Savouring every one and leaving you with the feeling of love and comfort, though this kiss lacked as much. The kiss felt as if it were a final plea — as if it were the last. His mouth plays with yours in a shaking manner that was mimicked by his hands, seeming as if he was trying to make this kiss last until the last moment it had to and you knew that it was going to leave you both far past breathless.

     When he reluctantly pulls away and stares into your eyes, you notice his dart towards the large clock that rests on your living room wall. His face change, colour draining and his mouth twisting into a miserable smile, forced and cold like he were trying to hold back a crippling sob that began to eat away at him. A hiccup of it bubbles up his throat as he pulls away, shaking his hand and running a hand over his mouth as he always does to clear the evidence of his cries. 

     You reach out again, trying to find a reason for the salted streaks before he steps out of your grasp — leaving you with the feeling of empty sorrow as you retract your hand to your chest. Your brows furrow, but he simply shakes his head once more, stepping toward the door. The Hunter stops before shutting it behind him, stealing one last glance at you as he throws an apology over his shoulder.

It was no simple apology.

Although he’d only uttered the words ‘I’m sorry’, you could tell it was an apology for everything. He was laying every fault, every mistake face up on the table for her to see as he pulled shut the door. He was gone. The last you hear of him is his footsteps as he walks the hall out of your building, faint sobs as he lets himself release them. 

Something was wrong, something was happening and then it hits you.

_He never once said that he would be okay._

That thought nagging your brain as a pounding head ache brings you to run toward the window — he never said that he would be alright, nor did he assure you that he would be coming back as he always did. Not once did he mention tomorrow, or even say to call. Something she’d always heard even in a rushed state was missing, and the final puzzle piece to put in place. 

     You make it just in time to see him staring up at you from the driver’s side door of his Impala, his eyes red and puffy and his hands shaking so badly you notice from three stories high. He watches you shake your head, hears your begging for him to come back and ignores it — ducking into his car and speeding off down the road without a word.

The clock on your wall struck midnight with a loud  _DONG_  before you realized.

Dean would never be coming home.


End file.
